CHRIS WALKER VS. EATING FUGU

There have been two things I’ve wanted to do practically all my life: 01.) work on a Alaskan King Crab fishing boat (my family would kill me before the ocean could); 02.) eat fugu.

Fugu is the Japanese word for puffer fish, a feared and revered delicacy, world-renown for the fact if improperly prepared it will kill you. In a very horrible way. The skin, liver, internal and reproductive organs of the puffer fish contain a poison called tetrodotoxin. Tetrodotoxin, when ingested in a large enough amount, paralyzes the body but allows the brain to continue functioning. So, while your body shuts down and you suffocate to death you remain cognizant. I’ve heard the poison can kill you in less than fifteen seconds; I’m sure those are a long fifteen seconds. Due to the deadly nature of the puffer fish, it has been banned in several countries. In places it is not prohibited you have to have to have a special license to prepare it.

Why do I want to eat puffer fish? It’s taboo. Dangerous. Oh yeah, and I guess I’m out of my fucking mind.

My desire to try fugu recently hit a road block while watching an episode of Andrew Zimmern’s Bizarre Foods. I can’t remember if Zimmern actually ate fugu on the show but I do remember him saying, “over a hundred people die from eating fugu…a year.” A year? I was kind of hoping to hear a hundred people ever. Suddenly, my survival odds didn’t seem so good.

To make matters worse, my dad e-mailed me this article from SFGate.com. Fish vendors in Thailand have been passing off puffer fish as salmon and it’s killed more than 15 people in the last three years, hospitalizing about 115. At first I thought, 15 deaths in three years? Cut up by fish mongers with no fugu licenses, sold to restaurateurs who think they’re serving salmon? Not too bad. Then I thought about the statement a little more: more than 15 people. Well, shit, that could mean anything. 78 is more than 15; 256 is more than 15. So is a thousand. All that statement really means is no less than 14 people died.

I started wondering about who would mistake puffer fish for salmon. Do they even look alike? I’ve never seen the meat of a puffer fish but raw salmon has a very distinct appearance. And do they taste alike? If puffer fish can pass for salmon, and no one can tell the difference until they’re dead, is it really worth eating? If I’m going to eat a fish capable of asphyxiating me to death in one bite I want it to taste like something I’ve never tasted before – I want it to taste like heaven, not salmon. If I am to, perhaps, meet my end through culinary adventures maybe I don’t want to take the risk with puffer fish after all.

Then I remembered something from Michael Ruhlman’s most recent book, The Reach of a Chef. Much of the end of the book is dedicated to Thomas Keller’s Per Se and Masa Takayama’s Masa – both haute restaurants on the fourth floor of Manhattan’s Time Warner Center – the latter of which is arguably the greatest sushi restaurant in the US, possibly the world. It costs somewhere between $350 – $400 just to get through the door at Masa; cell phones are not allowed; there is no menu, master chef Takayama serves you whatever he wants. The experience is said to be life-altering. To top it all off, fugu (when in season, mind you) is served at Masa. But not just any fugu: poisonless fugu.

According to The Reach of a Chef, the poison process begins when the puffer fish eats a certain type of shellfish. If the puffer fish never consumes that shellfish the poison is never produced thus; the puffer fish is not deadly to eat. Masa uses this kind of puffer fish: pen-raised, allowed to flourish in their natural habitat but isolated from the shellfish; a revolutionary idea and a way to eat puffer fish without risking death. My survival odds had improved.

Now, I’m faced with a new dilemma: does fugu maintain its appeal, its mystique, when you know eating it won’t kill you? I’m not sure. It’s almost like Cuban cigars: would anyone give a shit if there was no trade embargo? Probably not. To eat fugu, to not eat fugu, that is the question. In a way it’s almost like asking, “Would you play Russian roulette without a bullet in a chamber, or would you play Russian roulette at all?” Only if Russian roulette was served with sake and tasted delicious. Or, perhaps, tastes like salmon.

CHRIS WALKER VS. THE FUTURE OF AMERICA

Working by the local jail has its perks. Every morning I get to see the freshly-released, would-be inmates bantering with one another, bumming cigarettes, waiting for the bus to pick them up. From the gang-bangers, to the meth-heads, to the occasional frat-boy, the rag tag assortment is always amusing. For some reason they always make me feel that much better about myself.

My office is very close to Sun Valley – home of only the whitest of white trash. Any time I venture into the local 7-11 (directly across from the jail) I am privileged enough to witness one of them, stocking up on “big-bites” and massive jugs of soda, before they head toward mainland. They never fail to fascinate.

Standing in line at 7-11, I found myself behind what was probably the finest example of an average, uninformed, obese American. A Sun Valley inhabitant, no doubt. This woman – this giant, disheveled beast in her XXL Corona t-shirt, mid-thigh shorts, and flip-flops – waddled ahead of me, adorably tiny daughter in tow. In her possession: a large Slurpee, a small Slurpee for her daughter, a large bottle of Pepsi, and a large bag of potato chips. The essentials, basically.

My first thought about the woman was, who on god’s green earth would get that thing naked, be able to have sex with it, and produce a child? Not a stimulating visual, I assure you. Then, looking at the little girl, eager for her mother to hand over the Slurpee, I became concerned. I thought poor little girl, she never had a chance; she will surely grow up to be just another obese American, cramming down fast food and embracing mediocrity. How couldn’t she? Look at her mother, it’s all she knows.

Every day I become increasingly scared about the future of America.

CHRIS WALKER VS. SEARCHING FOR THE STOOGES AT LOCAL RECORD STORES

When Tower Records closed its doors to business, after bankruptcy and purchase by a company that didn’t want to keep the iconic chain alive, I felt it might be time to move to a new city. Tower was all Reno had left in terms of a traditional music store and once it was gone my options (lest I go completely digital or order online) became Best Buy, Target, or, god forbid, Walmart. Hardly ideal for the musically obsessed. Visions of the five-story Rasputin’s in San Francisco filled my mind however; I opted to stay in the “biggest little city in the world” regardless. It’s where I work, after all.

This weekend I developed an insane desire to rediscover 60s – 70s art rock, punk rock, and as my friend Brian Johnson referred to it: “protopunk”. I’d been listening to The Stooges’ Fun House for three days straight and, realizing I wanted more, became hell-bent on finding all the Stooges, Iggy Pop, Velvet Underground, and Lou Reed I could get my hands on. This wasn’t a job Best Buy could handle and, due to the nature of the music, I refused to go digital. I wanted linear notes. I wanted album art. I didn’t want bonus tracks. Part of me didn’t even want “remixed” or “remastered”. For this mission I had to go local, and I probably had to go used.

First stop: the long forgotten Recycled Records.

I hadn’t been inside the original Recycled Records, located in the shopping center of Kietzke and South Virginia, in over a decade. Last time I was there I bought Catherine Wheel and traded in Letters to Cleo. Obviously, my tastes have changed. Thankfully, Recycled Records hasn’t. The place has retained its charm, it still feels like a dungeon or some kind of “vinyl speakeasy” you might imagine in the basement of an old building, requiring password for admission. It’s awesome and the older I become the more I appreciate it. Amidst the posters and miscellaneous memorabilia, the walls are lined with countless used CDs ranging from Anthrax to Warren Zevon. The middle of the store is brimming with vinyl from every genre imaginable. They still sell tapes. They still sell movies on VHS. Their rap section is minimal, at best. The people behind the counter are exceedingly knowledgeable and you get the feeling they really care about music – and probably hated the late 90s (arguably the worst era of music ever: Britney Spears, Backstreet Boys, Limp Bizkit).

While my visit to Recycled Records made me fall back in love with the store, they didn’t have what I was looking for. No Velvet Underground in stock and when I finally asked if they had any Stooges – secretly hoping there was a hidden, special section for that kind of music – I was informed there was none and that when there is, “it usually flies off the shelves”. I settled for Lou Reed’s New York and went on my way.

Next stop: the relatively new Discology.

Located on the second story of the same building as Blue Moon Pizza and Satellite Bar and Lounge, on the corner of California and Plumas, Discology is what you might call the last of an all but dead breed: the independent music store. Discology is very small; the selection is scattered; in the age of iTunes and Amazon.com they cater to customers who make special orders. Not exactly cutting edge but, as much as the deck may seem like it’s stacked against Discology, the store shines in other ways. For one, they have a frequent buyer’s program (buy ten and get one free, or something like that). They support local artists by treating the walls like a gallery and hosting art shows. They also have regular in-store performances. On top of that, owner David Calkins (who worked at Recycled Records, previously) promotes the store through a blog and MySpace profile which keeps customers/potential customers up-to-date with the store’s happenings, as well as provides links to featured artists/performers. David is also into Egyptian art (Discology’s logo is a scarab beetle), which is cool.

Even though Discology didn’t have much of what I was looking for either (through the large amount of Pearl Jam and Britney Spears I was able to find Velvet Underground’s self-titled album and Loaded; no Stooges, sadly) everything the store represents makes me want to support it. I like the fact Discology is locally owned, independent, and involved in Reno’s art scene. I like the idea of special ordering albums, special ordering vinyl. To me, it makes the act of buying music exciting and personable again – the whole experience of going to a store, developing camaraderie with the people who work there, having them learn your tastes and look out for you when and if something they think you’d like comes along. I relish the thought of making music, and ways of obtaining it, truly matter again.

It seems like the days of appreciating and being enveloped by an album are fading. Downloading music (especially illegally) has made it so impersonal; music, in general, has become so single-oriented and disposable. Being the music nut I am, it bums me out. I won’t get too philosophical or preachy, it’s just nice to know worthwhile record stores have not completely gone the way of the buffalo in Reno. Not yet, anyhow. And I think it’s up to us, as consumers, to make sure they stick around. Now, if only they’d keep some Stooges on the shelves.

Links:

[Official] Recycled Records

[MySpace] Discology
[Blog] Discology